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<title>I don’t pretend to be an ordinary housewife by middlemarch</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301024">I don’t pretend to be an ordinary housewife</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch'>middlemarch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, WandaVision (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Domestic, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Marriage, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:22:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301024</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"My bride," he'd called her once in the moonlit night and she'd told him to be quiet. She didn't want anyone else to hear, to see her hearing him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wanda Maximoff/Vision</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I don’t pretend to be an ordinary housewife</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vision was good with his hands and thank God, because she was wearing heels every day and a girdle and garters, and then she wore flats without any arch support and even using her powers when Agnes wasn’t there to see, she’d worn herself out vacuuming and making the dinner and Agnes gave her an recipe for a tuna noodle casserole that should have been deployed as a chemical weapon or shoved down Thanos’s throat to destroy him before he’d even Blipped even one single moth and Wanda knew from mothballs now. She’d learned how they could eat through the most tightly woven thread, making a terrible, fanged lace of silk or wool, of a patchwork quilt someone had to have made for her, someone who never had a name but who’d loved her.</p><p>“Come here, my darling, you’ve been working too hard,” Vision said, patting the rough upholstery of the sofa beside him or the twin bed that was hers, pushed snug against his. Patting his thighs in their suit pants or crisp cotton pajama pants, ones she’d found herself ironing in a moment before a scene started, when she became aware a scene was about to ensue, like a brakeless train bearing down on the tracks. Who needed ironed pajamas? Why did Vision have so many handkerchiefs when he never wept? There were seconds she recognized were <i>before</i>, before the phone rang or the door-bell chimed, before she lit the candles on the dining room table; before whatever she said became a line, where her words only belonged to her. She was lonely and she shouldn’t be. She mustn’t be, not when she was only waiting for Vision to come home, for those gentle hands stroking her calves, circling her ankles, kneading the aches from her to the steady sound of her solitary breath.</p><p>“You’re good at that, Vis,” she’d murmur, ducking her head to ruin the shot or shifting over just enough that his hand disappeared beneath her crinoline, far enough a fade-to-black was required. It was a pleasure she’d never known, the delicate, whipped meringue of domestic bliss and beneath it, pain, darkness that they did not speak of but that she knew he understood, whatever face he wore. </p><p>“Wanda, my love,” Vision said every day, every time he walked through a door, quizzical, frustrated, tender. Ardent, argent, the tone of his voice making her cheeks flush as crimson as his own. She’d never get tired of it, abundance having nothing to do with her need, the most unexpected home economics.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title is a quote from Elizabeth Taylor.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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